


Stone in Your Water

by aliatori



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: 5+1 Things, Alcohol, Angst, Break Up, Canon Compliant, Cor/Tragedy, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Power Dynamics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-02
Updated: 2018-12-02
Packaged: 2019-09-05 18:32:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16816129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aliatori/pseuds/aliatori
Summary: The five times Regis finds meaning in Cor’s eyes, and the one time Cor finds meaning in Regis’.





	Stone in Your Water

“You sure your old man knew what he was doing when he gave you a 14 year old as a bodyguard? Especially on a last ditch mission through enemy territory to go beg at Accordo’s doorstep?”

Regis flicked his gaze from his phone to Clarus, who was leaning against the wall with his arms crossed as they waited for the Regalia to arrive. “He’s not _my_ bodyguard. He’s part of His Majesty’s personal regiment, which I happen to be borrowing for this trip.” Regis pursed his lips as he thought. “Frankly, I’m shocked you’re voicing a concern. You’re the one who’s seen him perform most admirably in combat.”

“Reg, it’s a little weird to watch a preteen kick the shit out of grown women and men in ‘Guard drills,” Clarus elaborated, gesturing vaguely with both hands.

Without meaning to, Regis looked to Cor, standing twenty feet away from him and Clarus, one hand on the hilt of the katana he wielded, a sword as big as he was. Nearly as tall as Regis, Cor stood with his back rigid, a black cap sitting slightly askew on his head, ice blue eyes focused on some point in the Citadel that Regis couldn’t name.

“He’s determined,” Regis murmured, his own eyes still trained on Cor’s lithe, wiry form, “I’ll give him that much.”

“So am I,” Clarus countered. “That doesn’t mean I was serious and straight laced from the time I popped out of my mother’s c—”

“Clarus!” Regis couldn’t help himself—he laughed. And when he laughed, Cor’s piercing gaze shifted to him, cutting through the sound like steel through sakura blossoms. Regis covered his mouth with one gloved hand and gave a delicate cough. It seemed enough to satisfy Cor, who returned his attention to whatever object in the distance fascinated him so.

“Hey, I signed up to die for you, which also means I signed up to use whatever language and voice whatever _concerns_ I want, whenever I want.” Clarus blew air through his lips to make an obscene flapping sound. “He’s just so _serious_.”

“It’s interesting to me that you’re fixating on the word serious, given your proclivity for crass humor and ill-timed jokes during mandatory political proceedings,” Regis observed with a small grin.

Clarus waved a dismissive hand. “Pretty sure a good sense of humor is the only thing that’s gonna get me through being stuck with you.”

Regis shook his head. He didn’t mean to look back at Cor, but he did, studying Cor’s profile in earnest, taking in the bold line of his nose and the hints of what would be a strong jaw. “If you knew how to understand him, perhaps you’d find him a little less unsettling.”

“Yeah? You figure it out, then? Better let me in on the secret.”

“The eyes.” Regis hadn’t meant to say it so earnestly, so quickly, but there the two words were. “Our young Leonis is quite skilled at controlling his facial expressions, but his eyes always give his true emotions away. I haven’t had the heart to tell him, though.”

Instead of laughing, Clarus appeared thoughtful, rubbing his bearded chin between thumb and forefinger, his own eyes now fixed on Cor. “Might be onto something there.”

“There is no ‘might be.’ Cor and I…” Regis paused, eyes narrowed as he met Clarus’ gaze. “We both have something to prove, I suppose. He just hasn’t learned not to broadcast it with every tilt of his chin or lingering glance.”

“Careful, Reg. You’re almost sounding wise.”

“Well. We can’t have that, now can we?”

The hearty purr of the Regalia’s engine rumbling up to the private entrance of the Citadel drew all of their attention. At the sound of the car, Cor strode over to Regis, face set into stony lines, expressionless… or so it seemed. As soon as Regis met Cor’s eyes, green on blue, the atmosphere shifted, a stalwart determination filling his bodyguard’s gaze, intense and demanding.

Yes. It was certainly in the eyes.

* * *

Half a year and countless deaths later, Regis saw stark, genuine pain in Cor Leonis’ eyes for the first time.

(It wouldn’t be the last.)

“Regis. _REGIS!”_

As soon as he’d heard Clarus use his full name, Regis began sprinting, but when Clarus bellowed his name in an anguished cry, he began to warp, covering the distance faster than almost anyone on Eos could.

He was simultaneously glad and horrified that he did, because the scene that awaited him was the substance of nightmares.

Crimson.

Regis’ mind registered the single colour in a hopeful attempt to make sense of the world around him. Rich, wet red stained Cor’s midsection, glistening in the afternoon sun, his twisting innards exposed to open air. Clarus’ broad palms equally red, his hands stained with blood, expression nothing less than desperate as he looked to Regis. 

Cor sobbing brokenly, each sob breaking something deep inside Regis, too.

“You Six damned fool,” he heard Clarus mutter, broad hands trying to hold Cor’s flesh together. “Stupid little lion.” There’s no way he could have seen Regis coming out of a warp, but perhaps he smelled the ozone-like stench of warping, because he honed in on Regis as soon as he appeared. “ _Help him_.”

Gilgamesh, Clarus had said in a hurried voice over the phone. Cor went to take on Gilgamesh, to prove himself worthy of being in your retinue, of his place in the Crownsguard. The words seemed unreal now, as unreal as the dirt beneath Regis’ creased trousers was real.

He and Clarus had always been an inseparable team, so Regis wasn’t surprised when Clarus silently handed Cor’s limp, shaking form to him, heavier in Regis’ arms than he expected. _Help him_ , Clarus had instructed, and though he thought it was a sublime idea, his magic didn’t cooperate. The full power of the crystal of Lucis was kept inaccessible by his own mortal panic.

“Y-y-your Highness,” Cor sobbed through clenched teeth.

Through no conscious choice of his own, Regis made the decision of meeting Cor’s eyes, a decision that likely saved Cor’s life.

Cor’s gaze held raw, naked pain, the crystalline blue of his eyes diluted by the tears shimmering within them. He was fifteen, just fifteen, barely more than a boy, and here he was, laying in Regis’ arms with his lifeblood spilling from a wound splitting open his stomach. _Help me_ , Cor’s gaze pleaded silently, pupils blown wide in terror, limbs trembling.

(He was just a kid. They’d said that about Regis too, long ago, and Lucis had spared neither of them, only left them to be chewed up and spat out by the cogs of crown and country.)

“If you live...” Regis muttered, closing his own eyes and shutting out the world. Though Cor’s open wound was still warm and slick beneath his hands, the removal of visual stimuli helped, and as Regis called upon the healing magic of the crystal…

It answered.

Vibrant power surged through Regis, pouring into his youngest bodyguard with wild abandon. The magic of Lucis worked as intended; the most dire wound across Cor’s gut began to knit closed, flesh mending beneath Regis’ fingers even as he kept his own eyes shut. He didn’t need to see Cor’s wide-eyed gaze, didn’t need such a mundane thing as sight to confirm his efforts—Cor’s soft, breathless gasp of relief was enough.

Enough for Cor. Never enough for Regis.

“You fool,” Regis said, all quiet disappointment and screaming terror. “You utter fool.” 

Once Cor’s body had stilled, once he had gone limp with the relaxation magical healing had afforded him, he spoke.

“I know.” Tears still trickled from the corners of Cor’s eyes, streaking through the grime covering his face. “I’m sorry,” he rasped, body still shaking from the aftereffects of undistilled healing magic.

“You should be,” Regis snapped with every ounce of regal authority he had, still cradling Cor’s upper body.

As Cor succumbed to utter exhaustion, Regis had the distinct feeling he was… no, _they_ were doomed.

* * *

That feeling never dissipated.

Every day after Gilgamesh, Regis did his best to maintain a safe distance from Cor.

For long time, he succeeded. Until he didn’t.

Time after time, Cor’s eyes drew Regis back in, their depths filled with a promise of devotion that Regis couldn’t accept. _Wouldn’t_ accept, because though Cor had grown into a fine young man, though Regis would be lying if he denied the magnetism pulling the two of them together, it wouldn’t be fair.

It wouldn’t be right.

His father was dead, and so he was the 113th king of Lucis now, not a prodigal prince, and he wouldn’t ask more of Cor than he was willing to give as a subject.

It didn’t stop Cor from giving, if not to Regis, then to their kingdom.

He ascended through the ranks of the Crownsguard like a star on fire, blazing a trail behind him brighter than the shimmer of the Wall around Insomnia. Skill and dedication carried him further than any thought possible, and by the time Cor was 18, he was approaching the highest rank he could earn at his age.

Regis, though he told himself it was a foolish idea, chose to watch Cor’s final test to obtain the rank of lieutenant. The test was a formality, of course, because Cor had already been blooded in battle, had slain more opponents by the time he was in his late teens than some had in their entire careers, and had demonstrated a terrifying aptitude for the ruthless calculus of war.

Still. Lucis and its traditions. Its stifling formalities, Cor would say—on more bitter days, its farcical _dignity_.

A wave of bows and curtsies followed Regis as he entered the Crownsguard training room. This in itself wasn’t particularly new—it had happened often enough when he was just a prince, though not quite to the same degree now that he was a king. Clarus, who had been promoted to Captain of the Crownsguard upon King Mors’ death, simply observed from the sidelines, giving a single nod of acknowledgement to Regis as he swept through the room.

And there was Cor.

His expression matched the stark, black Crownsguard fatigues he’d had custom made. Cor’s fatigues covered him from neck to the bottom of his red-soled boots, a choice in design Regis thought was certainly deliberate. The royal armorers must have had their work cut out for them to make the stiff, layered clothing both defensive and maneuverable.

Astrals. Even in his _thoughts_ , Regis was dissembling.

Regis didn’t know why he felt so compelled to watch in the first place. After all, he and Cor had already fought together against Imperial forces, defending the outer territories of Lucis from complete invasion… with varying degrees of success. Day by day, the occupied sections of Lucis grew and the free sections shrank; at the same time, Regis’ resentment over the fact that all he could offer Insomnia was a gilded cage grew. 

“Positions!” Clarus bellowed over the din of the training room.

 _And a hush descends upon the crowd_ , Regis thought, conversations drawing to a close, the clatter of training weapons being re-racked and shuffling of bodies the only remaining noise.

As Cor took up his position on one side of the sparring ring, he caught and held Regis’ gaze. Taller than Regis now, carved into hard angles by wiry muscle, Cor simmered with potential energy. One hand rested on the hilt of his katana—a katana that Regis had commissioned for him after the loss of his Genji Blade, a katana that was never more than arm’s length away from Cor. Though his mouth was set in a typical, grim line, Cor’s eyes were cold fire, blazing with challenge. _Watch me win_ , they said.

Regis received the message loud and clear.

“Begin!” Clarus called.

Cor’s opponent—Lieutenant Nazarius, Regis’ mind supplied helpfully—held her own longer than Regis expected. Cor crouched low and went on the offensive right away, his blade whistling through the air towards Nazarius, who managed to parry the blow with her shield mere moments before Cor secured a victory by first blood.

A prodigy. The Immortal. Cor wore the monikers whether he liked it or not, building his reputation to match his skill. Watching him fight was a fascinating experience—Cor never wasted a motion, a breath, a _thought_ in combat, his focus singular and unerring. However, that afternoon, Regis noticed none of those things.

All he noticed was Cor’s eyes. Steely, determined, calculating, and quietly, intensely furious. Anger and arrogance filled those icy blue eyes as Cor redoubled his offense. Regis liked to think he was one of the few people who knew of Cor’s propensity for rage, knew how hard he worked to keep it carefully under control, hidden under lock and key. 

He _didn’t_ like to think of how much Cor knew of him in return—or what that meant for the growing tension between them, decorum attached by the barest thread.

With one elegant upward sweep of his blade, Cor left a razor thin cut along Lieutenant Nazarius’ cheek, the narrow line of red signaling his victory.

And then he looked at Regis.

All the focus, all the rage had gone, replaced by as soft an expression as Regis had ever seen from Cor, sky blue eyes shaping a question instead of a demand.

_Are you proud of me?_

There was no stopping the _yes_ that poured out of Regis, from his benevolent smile to the crinkle of his eyes to the nod of his head to the pounding of his heart to the shameful, sudden heat in his groin.

Regis heard Clarus call the match. He went through the motions as expected of a king, clapping politely, clasping shoulders, and offering congratulations. He did it as though part of a fever dream, delirious.

The next time he looked at Cor, his eyes were stoic, but Regis felt the passage of the moment as acutely as the rope of a guillotine being cut.

His stay of execution was about to end.

* * *

They lasted three months.

Another gala, another show of normalcy for the people. Regis (at Clarus’ urging, because “I can see the stick up your ass from across the ballroom!”) had indulged in more wine and champagne than was strictly appropriate for the monarch of Lucis. He’d always held his liquor well, however, and the drinks lent the evening a warm, liquid shimmer, a faint pleasantness—nothing more.

Cor, who had been conspicuously absent through most of the evening, reappeared at his side once the last guests had departed.

“I’ll accompany you to your office,” Cor declared, his tone leaving no room for argument.

“What makes you assume I’m going to my office instead of retiring for the night?”

“Because I know there’s four piles of bureaucratic shit on your desk that you’ll insist on shoveling first.”

Regis, who had been watching a few members of the Crownsguard confer nearby, swiveled his head in Cor’s direction. Cor was often blunt, but rarely crass, and the longer Regis studied him, the more clues appeared: a dusting of pink along his cheeks, a slight haziness to his eyes, the lingering scent of whiskey.

“You’re _intoxicated_ , Cor,” Regis said, mockingly serious.

“Are you going to lecture me, or let me do my job?”

“Technically, this is Captain Amicitia’s job.”

“Doesn’t look like he’s here,” Cor observed with a snort.

Regis scanned the room and found Cor to be correct. “When did that happen?”

“When I talked to him and agreed to escort you to your office.”

“I don’t seem to have much choice in the matter, do I?”

“No.”

Regis sighed. The sensible part of him was tempted to tell Cor to go home—or at the very least, sleep it off in his Citadel quarters—and find another guard for the evening. There was no denying his own judgment was impaired, to say the least, and if he made an educated guess, so was Cor’s.

Unfortunately, Regis had never been sensible, not when it came to Cor.

“Let’s be off, then.”

The halls were by and large empty due to the late hour. Instead of trailing behind Regis like a grim shadow, Cor walked beside him, his gait as smooth and powerful as ever despite the more subtle signs of his alcohol consumption. One slow elevator ride and long corridor later, they arrived outside of Regis’ private office, located on the opposite side of the Citadel as the throne room.

It was Cor who closed the door behind them once they were inside, the deadbolt sliding home with a heavy thunk as he locked it.

“I have a confession to make,” Regis began, already halfway across the room, heading towards the elegant mahogany cabinet beside one of the room’s elliptical windows. Cor grunted, which Regis took as a sign to continue. “I have absolutely no intention of working for the remainder of the evening.”

“Really,” Cor deadpanned.

He found the bottle he was searching for, an unopened, triple distilled Cleigne bourbon, a holdover from the days where Lucis controlled the territory. “Correct. I plan on drinking. Copiously.” Regis fished out two crystal tumblers from the same cabinet, holding them both in one gloved hand, the bottle of bourbon in the other. “Care to join me?”

A flicker of hesitation passed through Cor’s piercing gaze. “Are you certain that’s wise, _Your Majesty_?”

“Six, no, but I intend to do so anyway.” Regis moved back to the massive desk and, after setting his weapons of choice down on its surface, turned his attention to Cor. “Will I be drinking alone?”

Cor’s eyes darted from Regis to the liquor to the door in quick succession before settling on Regis. Their eyes met, and Regis knew this had been a terrible idea, but he couldn’t muster the strength to stop the inertia pushing them towards imminent disaster. 

“No.”

“Good.”

Regis uncorked the bottle and used a heavy hand to fill both glasses three fingers full of amber liquid. The smoky scent of the borbon was underlaid by the sharp burn of alcohol, and as he handed Cor one of the glasses, their fingers brushed, and he wished he’d remembered to take off his gloves first.

Cor eyed his glass as though sizing up an opponent on the field, and just like in actual combat, it took him all of three seconds to reach a decision, lifting the glass to his lips. He took several long swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat as it worked. When Cor finally stopped, his glass was nearly empty; he placed it back on the table with a loud thump and stared into Regis’ eyes, unflinching.

 _Six. Astrals_. Regis lifted his own glass and downed half of it like a shot, any nuance of the luxurious quality lost in a scorching burn, a burn that matched the one spreading through his limbs and pooling in his groin.

“I have a confession to make, too,” Cor said hoarsely. His long legs made quick work of the distance between them, and soon he was in Regis’ space, filling his senses. His eyes…

Regis had assured himself long ago that Cor could no longer surprise him, that he’d been subjected to every subtlety the man had to offer. He was disabused of that notion by the raw, naked _want_ in Cor’s half-lidded eyes, gorgeous blue swallowed by the black of his pupils.

“Which is?” Regis murmured, unable to tear his gaze away from Cor’s, sinking into the desire in his eyes like a stone into water, easy as drowning.

“I think you know.”

If Regis’ intellect hadn’t clued in, the rest of him certainly had, the aching bulge in his trousers embarrassingly obvious in the tight pinstripe slacks of his suit. Any hope of Cor ignoring it disappeared when he stepped forward and slotted a thigh between Regis’ legs, the friction sending white-hot sparks of pleasure along his nerves.

“Cor…” Regis lifted a hand and cradled the side of Cor’s face with a firm, leather gloved hand, tilting his head down a fraction. “There’s no turning back from what you’re asking.”

“I’ve sworn everything to you. The least you can do is give me this,” Cor said, the bass of his voice reduced to ragged tatters.

Regis did.

He pulled Cor to him and crushed their lips together, and though Regis spared a single thought for gentleness, it burned to cinders along with his reservations. There had never been any room for gentleness between them, only a fire flask ready to explode, and the first taste of Cor’s mouth served as the catalyst for the blast.

Cor was his. Had always been his, though Regis had tried not to see it, had denied it with every scrap of regal willpower he possessed, but there was no denying it now, not with the firm musculature of Cor’s body beneath Regis’ bare hands, not with Cor tearing his shirt off so hard he heard the stitches rip, not with his loud moan as Regis pinned Cor’s back to the top of the desk.

If other people made love, this was making war. Blunt nails digging into scalps, sharp teeth biting hard enough to draw blood, bruising grips on defined hipbones, harsh grunts and slapping skin—each time Cor asked for more, Regis gave, and gave, and gave.

He choked out _Your Majesty_ at the end, groaned it into Regis’ ear like a prayer, reverent, and Regis learned half the truth of his earlier words: there would be no turning back.

He learned the other half moments later, when he risked a look into Cor’s eyes and found the ever illusive softness he’d been chasing since that fateful moment in the training room.

Where he found devotion.

Where he found, Astrals save them both, love.

* * *

Love wasn’t enough to save them—wasn’t enough to save anyone, Regis later came to realize.

Aulea had known about Cor before they were ever wed, his closest childhood friend and confidant, and so the nameless bond he and Cor had persisted through marriage.

They made it through the birth of Regis’ first (and only) child.

Aulea’s death nearly finished them both, and yet somehow, they lived, neither King nor Immortal lucky enough to lay their titles down to rest.

It was war that had started them down this path together, and it was war that ended it.

(It was _Regis_ who finished it, Regis who told himself he didn’t want Cor to watch him die as a lover, Regis whose pride would only allow him to admit in soft, secret spaces that he wanted Cor to remember him while there was still vigor worth remembering.)

Regis had no graceful words.

“The Crystal will kill me.”

Cor squinted, and whether it was from the bright afternoon sunlight in the Citadel courtyard or Regis’ words, he couldn’t say. “And you’re telling me this because?”

The weight of every year he’d lived was etched into Regis’ bones, and he felt it triple now, studying Cor as he pondered his next sentence. “Maintaining the Wall against the Empire’s assaults, protecting Insomnia… it will kill me, slowly, make every passing year I age seem like five.” _I don’t want you to remember me as an old, crippled man._ “You’re still young.” _You deserve better._

“Regis, whatever you’re trying to say, I’d suggest saying it,” Cor said, all sardonic bite.

“This has to end.” _We have to end_.

Regis hadn’t seen Cor slam his guard up so quickly since the start of… whatever they were, and as he watched it happen right before his eyes, regret churned and sloshed in his stomach, nausea threatening to overwhelm him. _It’s for the best_ , he began to reassure himself.

All of his reassurances dissolved once he met Cor’s eyes.

They held a pain Regis hadn’t seen since Gilgamesh, since he literally held Cor in his arms as his life bled away, a hurt so rich and intense that his heart stuttered out an indignant protest in his chest. There were no tears today, not now, not after years of practice on Cor’s part at bearing pain he shouldn’t have to bear.

There was no shortage of agony.

Cor took several deep breaths loud enough for Regis to hear, veins in his temple and neck raised and prominent from the clench in his jaw. He imagined he could hear the locking of Cor’s boxes, lids slamming shut as Regis became another memory to compartmentalize, forgotten in order for Cor to move on.

“Will that be all, Your Majesty?” Cor wielded Regis’ title as effectively as he wielded any weapon, which was _very_ ; Regis may as well have been eviscerated by a blade for the gaping wound it left.

“Yes, Marshal.”

 _It’s for the best_ , Regis thought as he watched Cor leave, back perfectly straight, chin tilted high. _It’s for the best_ , he thought later in his quarters as he poured himself a stiff drink with a trembling hand. _It’s for the best_ , but even as drunk as he’d ever been in his entire life, Regis still didn’t believe it.

No matter what he told himself, no matter how hard he tried, nothing could shake the image of Cor’s sky blue eyes, heavy with betrayal and regret, from his mind.

* * *

Decades later, Cor stood below Regis in the throne room, hands clasped behind his back, shoulders squared.

“I need you to escort Noctis out of Insomnia and ensure he sets out for Altissia safely.”

It wasn’t the most outrageous order Regis had ever given him, but it was _damn_ close.

“With all due respect, Your Majesty—” Cor began, voice steady, but Regis stopped him with a single raised hand.

“This is not a request.”

“Then it’s an order.”

“If that’s the only way you’ll follow my instructions, then yes, I am willing to make it an order.”

“The delegation from Niflheim will be here tomorrow. Assigning me to any other duty aside from your protection would be a foolish mistake,” Cor protested.

“Then we’ll both be fools, I suppose,” Regis said, and Cor hated the rueful smile Regis gave him, hated it as much as he hated the inevitable conclusion to this conversation.

“I would remain at your side.” It was the closest Cor could get to saying what he actually wanted to say: I don’t want to leave.

“And I would feel much safer for your presence. However, the unfortunate fact remains that the majority of the ‘Glaive and a large percentage of the ‘Guard will be stationed in Insomnia for the treaty signing. The people need you, Cor, and…” Regis paused. “There is no one else I can trust with Noctis’ protection.”

Regis’ voice betrayed nothing. Cor, who knew his king better than most, who knew the ins and outs of his thoughts and habits, met his eyes.

In their pale olive depths, no less vibrant for the toll the Crystal had taken on his body, no less sharp for his age, Cor found the first lie Regis had ever told him.

“Are you certain, Your Majesty?” Cor asked.

“Yes.”

Cor swallowed down his doubt. An order was an order. He offered Regis a bow, subject to king—nothing more. “Your will be done.”

“May the Astrals watch over you, Cor.”

Cor nodded—though he’d never had much use for the gods, he appreciated the gesture as all that Regis could offer him—turned on his heel, and exited the throne room, wishing his departure didn’t feel so _final_.

(He learned later, as Insomnia burned, as his city burned, as his friends and lovers and king and country and life and _soul_ burned with it, just how final it was.)

**Author's Note:**

> Trying to figure out any sort of coherent timeline for pre-game stuff is a nightmare, so my apologies for any errors.
> 
> Thanks for reading! Kudos and comments are appreciated if you enjoyed. <3
> 
> Come find me over on [Tumblr](http://aliatori.tumblr.com/) or [Twitter](https://twitter.com/AliatoriEra).


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